Raising Magnolias

Grace for an Ugly Heart

There is this woman.

I look at her some days—

And cringe.

She’s a  fraud.

People think she’s kind, but her heart is black.

She’s  been told she’s attractive.

I can’t imagine why. Nothing about her is attractive.

She is distinctly unattractive.

She has friends.

Amazing ones.

They must not know. Must not see.

She has clients. Who hire her. Trust her. Follow her.

They must not know. Must not see.

Don’t they know she’s a fraud?

That her heart is full of pride and bitterness?

Can’t they see that she blames everything on everyone else?

That she’s entitled and manipulative and jealous?

People probably think she’s a good mom, too.

She tries.

I’ll give her that.

She tries hard. She loves her children.

She fails. But she tries.

She is hot-tempered.

Lord, have mercy is she hot-tempered.

And often acts like a small child.

She can be irrational and Oh. My. Gosh. high maintenance.

Super high.

Tower. Flippin’. High.

A church dress and sephora’s best cannot mask an ugly heart.

And hers can be so ugly.

I’m not being too harsh. If if sugar-coat her sinful heart, I sugar-coat her need for Jesus.

I sugar-coat the Cross.

And yet.

There is the cross.

There is Grace.

There is Redemption.

Even for a high-maintence, quick-tempered, jealous, ugly soul like hers.

And because of the Cross. Because of His grace.

Her husband adores her.

He praises her. “Many women have done excellently, but you surpass them all” (Proverbs 31:29).

(Which makes this woman smile. Like a little word-play from the Lord, for wife #3).

Her children love her. Even when she gets it wrong, they love her.

“They rise up and call her blessed.” (Proverbs 31:28).

That is crazy. Grace-crazy.

Crazy grace that would save a wretch like me.

I used to say it all the time. But had forgotten until this morning.

“I’ve never been here.”

We. Have never been here.

Ann Voskamp wrote that once and it stuck.

We’ve never been here.

As a wife and a mother and a friend and a step and an ex and a business owner and a daughter and a sister.

I.

Have never been here before.

We hear all the time that God’s mercies are new every morning. But here’s what I also know.

They are new. And they are specific.

The mercy we need for today.

So it doesn’t matter.

That we haven’t been here.

He’s go it covered.

Got us covered.

Got me covered.

Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound.

My Place

I did it again.

Got burned.

I had sunblock. I even loaned sunblock to my fellow baseball mom, burning in the sun.

It never once dawned on me that I, too, should apply.

Good grief. How many times does it take to learn the hard lessons?

77×7.

Or more.

I think that’s actually how many times we are supposed to forgive a person.

I struggle with that, too.

It feels as though I live my life walking a very thin beam. I fall to the left and I’m too quiet and too reserved and do nothing to speak up for myself.

I fall the right and I can’t shut-up and I can’t turn the other cheek and I have this ridiculous need to keep talking and keep talking and I dig.

The biggest. dang. hole.

The balance of a step-mom is even thinner. It’s like walking a high-wire rope.

Untrained.

And fat.

With big feet.

And dangit. I’d been doing so well. Like the emoji with zipper lips.

And then I stumbled.

“Let’s remember your place, ” She says.

Yes. And. Well.

I so wanted to say.

Let’s remember yours.

But I didn’t. Instead, I kept a quiet heart.

Sorta.

Coulter and I were having “church” in the car. Car church consists of K-LOVE radio with a few side comments thrown in, in an effort to ease the missing-church-for-a-baseball-game-guilt.

We listen.  “Tell me, lest I forget, who I am to you.”

Who I am to You.

I turned the music down and I took Coulter back a night.

We had been driving back from a wedding.

I had the cruise on 65 in a 60.

We came upon a small town and I slowed.

We heard this strange WHOOP sound. Coulter said, “Weird! What was that sound?”

“I don’t know. I think it was a train.”

I turned to him and made a shrugging sign and as I turned back to face forward I noticed that my review mirror was set for my husband.

I lowered it.

And then I saw it.

Flashing lights all over the dang place.

For me!

Evidently when cars don’t stop they give you a “WHOOP”.

The deputy had been trying to pull me over for more than a mile and called in another deputy because I wasn’t stopping.

“Tonight in the heartland. A wild mom and son chase broke out in small-town Pender Nebraska.”

Yeah.

I let the lyrics sink in. Then I confessed.

The reason mom didn’t notice the officer last night was because I was angry. I was distracted by that anger and distracted by what my response would be.

He feigned interest and I took that as a green light to continue.

“But what I forgot, Coulter is that we can’t let others tell us who we are.”

And who we aren’t.

We can’t allow others to put us in our place. Or, more to the point, the place they’d like us to be.

My place is on a Rock. Where He keeps my feet secure. Where I can walk the balance beam.

And not fall.

Only God Almighty can tell us our place.

I was raised to be graceful and kind and generous. I was raised to be a magnolia.

But the steel in our family runs super deep and you mess with my family, threaten my lovelies or remind me of “my place” and I’m gonna bless your heart 10 ways to Sunday.

(Dang generational influence of ridiculously loving, opinionated, and strong-willed women.)

But the minute I go there. The minute I remind you of my place and why I’m here and how I got here, well—

It’s like forgetting my sunblock.

I get burned and it’s so.

Not worth it.

In fitness and aging we talk endlessly about core strength.

Last night when I wanted to lash out, I ran to His Word instead. I spoke His Word out loud. Like a mantra to my stubborn head.

A quiet answer turns away wrath.

Do not answer a fool according to his folly.

We are to….speak evil of no-one, avoid quarreling, be gentle and show perfect courtesy to all people.

Perfect flippin’ courtesy? Really, Lord?

And then I think. Yes!

God’s word is core-strength for living the Christian life.

When we don’t know it, don’t read it, don’t spend time in it, our core grows weak and we fall off the beam.

And when we don’t apply sunblock, we get burned.

From Matthew. “I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak, for by your words you will be justified, and by your words you will be condemned.”

I’m listening, Lord. Except for the 77X7 times that I forget to listen and even then, I know my place—

Is with You.

Shade from the Sun

I love the sun. I love being warm.

Hot, actually.  I love being hot.

People always say that cold is better because you can layer up and get warm but I don’t find that to be true. There are days when I’m so cold, the only thing that warms me up is a hot bath.

And then you have to get out.

I love the sun. I love being warm.

It’s like a blanket from God. It’s like you’re being wrapped in His arms. At the start of spring I will take any moment I have to lie in the sun.

We recently took a weekend trip to Miami.

I don’t need Mexico. I don’t need passports.

I just need the sand.

The water.

And the sun.

Europeans love Miami. Walking down the beach and through town you hear French and German and Italian. Much of the workforce consist of Mexican-Americans, Cuban-Americans and African-Americans.

So at the risk of sounding racist or elitist, I see no need to leave the country for a beach. Miami offers all the sun and culture that one could hope for.

When I go on a beach vacation, no planning is needed.

I walk from my hotel room to the beach.

And back to my hotel room.

I’m sure Miami has more to offer, but I’m not interested.

I’m also not interested in umbrellas. Why would one spend $400 on a plane ticket to find the sun only to spend $25 to hide it.

And yet they were everywhere.

No thank you. More sun please.

I read and I slept and soaked.

And I burned.

I burned the living fire out of my skin.

Hot. Fire-y. Didn’t wear a bra for 4 days burn.

Yes. I wore sunblock.

Yes. I reapplied.

I tossed and turned that night as I could feel the sheets tearing into my skin. I tore off layer by layer because everything hurt.

My husband looks at me. Didn’t you start with clothes? As if he’s thinking he should’ve remembered if I’d started the night sans jammies.

I paid $15 for a tiny bottle of advil. Another $20 for solarcaire spray. If you’re counting that’s $10 more dollars than the umbrella would’ve cost.

I spent another $20 on a long sleeve t-shirt so that I could go back out into the sun.

Mike and I went for coffee. I spotted a pregnant woman and her husband. She was a petite, beautiful woman who, looking young and rested, was obviously expecting her first child.

Women expecting their 2nd child look different.

I spoke. Pleasant. We’re Americans in a foreign country after all. 🙂

And then I lost it. Like my husband had to usher me out like I was a crazy person, lost it. I told her to enjoy it, to savor it, that it goes by so stupid-fast and I sounded like the old lady who squeezes cheeks and makes little kids run to the other room.

Mike reluctantly left his crying, burning-like-the-sun wife for a day of training.

I went to the room, put on the plush robe provided by the hotel that I desperately want to steal and flipped through channels.

I decided on a movie about two children dying from cancer. Because nothing says vacation like watching a ridiculously sad movie.

I cry. I spray solarcaire. I pop more advil.

And then I went to the spa. Unfortunately the only thing I’d let them touch were my toes. Toenails don’t  get burned.

Mike returned. A newly certified USA Powerlifting coach and he sees the tissue surrounding the remote.

“Oh no,” He says. “Did you run into more pregnant women?” 🙂

We walked the streets of Miami beach that night. We listened to the accents and the stories. We saw the homeless, the street-sleeping, least-of-these.

We are all.

The least of these.

We’ve been back now for over a week. My tummy is a flaky mess, a reminder of a day well spent. It’s storming and I’m scrolling through Facebook. Seeing pictures of rainbows and lightning, and searching for information on a Fremont child fighting for his.

And praying. For the unknown.

Psalm 91:4.

He will shelter you with his wings. You will find safety under his wings. His faithfulness is like  a shield or a protective wall.

I’ve prayed that many times. That the Lord would shelter me under His wings but I’m getting it in a whole new way today.

God’s shelter is like a giant umbrella protecting us from our own ignorance of chasing too much sun.

God’s wings offer safety from the burn and when the hurting of this life is too much, we can run there.

My prayer is the hurting families this morning will do just that. Run to Him.

And stay.

And for access, we don’t have to pay the $25 umbrella fee.

Jesus paid in full.

Sunday night, exhausted from a weekend of DIY projects, including re-fisinshing hardwood floors (that, for the record, I’m going to re-finish again. Only this time, I’m going to hire a professional and pretend the mess he’s inherited is from the previous owners, something he’s probably not going to believe since I already posted on Facebook, but I’ll do it anyway) and pouring almost 2000 lbs of concrete in an effort to expand our driveway to accommodate a basketball hoop, I received a message.

That may have been my longest run-on sentence yet.

My phone pings and I slide it open.

It is a friend telling me that Coulter had been Sunday School class that morning and that he was a joy.

Upon hearing something as precious as my son being called a joy, I did what any loving mom would do.

I burst into tears, threw my head into my husband’s lap and cursed the father of my children.

I know, right?

So loving and rational. Maybe most moms would’ve just said thank you?

I could’ve, but it would be like congratulating your arch-nemesis on receiving a promotion that you were up for. Like, wahoo….teeny-tiny letters.

yay.

I don’t have an arch-nemesis and I’ve never once been up for a promotion so not sure what cloud I pulled that one from, but I’m guessing it’s the cloud of being high on polyurethane.

In case you’re wondering its a Lutheran Church.

I’m back to the Sunday School issues.

I didn’t know a lot about the Lutheran church before moving to the Midwest. The only Lutheran I knew, or at least I think I remember was my friend Kevin B, but I’m pretty sure he never went.

Lutherans in the midwest are like Baptist and Methodists in the South. They are everywhere.

Yes, I realized that I capitalized South and not the midwest. I was going to correct it, but thought maybe it was a Freudian thing?

Anyway.

I only mention to assure that I have nothing against my children attending a Lutheran church, learning about the same Jesus that they hear about at Grace.

And in our home.

It’s just that.

Wait. What’s that?

Just be glad they’re in church? That is what you were thinking.

I know. Because if I were anywhere but inside this life, it’s what I would be thinking, too.

I’m still mad and having irrational responses to “Oh, what a joy to have your son in Sunday School” remind me that I’m still mad.

Maybe I’ll always be mad.

Hopefully not.

This past weekend was First Communion for many of my friends. This is also something I didn’t grow with. We took Communion from the time we could walk to the alter. Once a month, every month. Bread and grape juice. For a while we had a Preacher who tried to save money with little wafer things and I realize that churches everywhere still do that, but for the record, it’s not bread.

And I don’t think Jesus would be very happy about the cracker-wafer-gluten free thingy. He would probably not be happy that we would sit in the front row and make fun of the little old ladies who forgot to take the price tag off their shoes.

🙂

Anyway. I had inhaled two days worth of varnish fumes and concrete dust and a my entire Facebook feed was lit up with beautiful families celebrating faith in Jesus.

Together.

And I am a rotten human being because here is the truth.

I’m jealous.

Like so seriously jealous.

Of families that worship together and take Communion together and simply ride to church.

Together.

And I’m angry that I have to miss 1/2 of all their Sundays.

Half.

I’m missing out and somedays I’m a small child, stomping my feet in the sandbox refusing to accept that life’s purpose was never about fairness.

I have a dear cousin who may or may not still read my blog, but when I go back—when I go back and reflect and remember— it frustrates her because she can see what is very true.

I am living an amazing life.

Even today, walking out of Women’s Methodist where they scraped out about half my insides for a stinkin’ cell sample, I had a stop-in-my-tracks moment of gratitude for this life I am living.

So seriously blessed by the goodness of a loving and gracious Father.

But it doesn’t mean I can’t get mad.

Hello, David?

Or frustrated.

Or for a tiny self-indulgent moment, wonder.

What might have been.

And I think that’s OK.

And I think of my friends who have lost their spouses and are learning to love again. Or friends who have buried their child and are leaning into healing and fighting for joy.

For me. Today. I’m praying for eyes to see and a heart that remembers, they are still hurting.

And they still get mad.

And wonder.

What might have been.

And that’s OK.

Time heals? I don’t buy it. Time simply passes and we adjust to a new normal.

Broken hearts? Only Jesus can heal those.

Fortunately for my children, they’ll have plenty of Pastors, Sunday School teachers and Christ-following friends to share that truth!

I’m thinking that there are two types of people in this world.

Rational thinkers and emotional thinkers.

Those that plan to perfection, and those that dive in.

Those who hire a professional the first time, knowing their limitations, and those who jump in with no research and no knowledge and do it anyway because it’s on their to-do list and then fail and then they hire a professional.

Whatever. Either way, in the end, I gotta share my Sundays and trust in the One. True. Professional.

Our bodies are decaying. We are all dying. And oh, by the way, Happy Easter.

Emma Claire burst into our room and stared at me. Nudging. This weird expectancy on her face and I said hesitantly,

“Did you find the golden egg?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I didn’t look.”

She continues the weird stare.

“Did the Easter Bunny come?” And for the record, I’m not big on the ol bunny and outed him several years ago. How in the world did pounding nails into a man’s hand, brutalizing him, torturing him with a slow death of bleeding out turn into a Bunny holiday? I don’t get this

But for the record, I love Santa. It’s totally different. 😉

Anyway, she hasn’t looked for the bunny. She taps my shoulder, silently pleading with me to figure it out and finally, “OH!!!!”

“HE IS RISEN!” I yell!

She beams with pride! “HE IS RISEN INDEED!

And that was Easter morning.

It was a blissful moment as a Mom knowing that I, unlike so many parents of the world, am teaching my children what is right and true and good.

Then.

She finds her golden egg. Looks at the $20, makes a face that looks like she smelled the now rotting easter eggs and said, “Oh man. I thought it would be 100 bucks!”

And just like that. My bliss had left the building.

In church, we don’t say He is risen. But we do sing it. Then the pastor starts the Super Bowl of Christian holidays out by saying. Guess what?

Our bodies are decaying. We are all dying. Oh and by the way.

Happy Easter.

Emma Claire laughed. Later that night she said, “Hey Mom. We’re all dying. Happy Easter.”

And she giggled.

The Pastor continued. Preaching on hope.

Emma Claire looked up and said, “What does this have to do with the Resurrection?”

Maybe 30 seconds later, Pastor says, “You may be asking yourself what this has to do with the Resurrection.”

So he told us.

Emma Claire. Always one step ahead.

At least, of her momma.

Fast forward 18 hours  hours and Emma Claire bursts into our room crying. She was on fire and complained that her head hurt.

Right behind her eyes.

I snuggled in next to her on the small daybed that is covered with dolls and animals and books and an iPad and earphones and clothes. I struggled to find a place for my feet and searched in vain for a pillow that didn’t have ribbons sticking out of it.

No-one slept.

Fast forward 24 hours. Emma Claire burst into our room crying.

Again.

She was on fire and complained that her tummy hurt. We made it just out side our bedroom door where she began to throw-up.

I’ve written about this before and it still dumfounds me. Why do children always get sick at night? When it’s dark and you can’t find your glasses and you can’t find the toilet.

In time.

We head back to the tiny daybed still covered in an array of all things girly, only this time I make a quick stop for my pillow.

The struggle is real. I wanna pull her into my bed, the bed that my friend Kim sold me from Krasnes. The bed that is made for a 43 year-old tired momma with back issues. The bed that literally molds to my every curve. (Even as my dang metabolism slows and those curves grow.) I want to nudge my hubby and kindly suggest that he, ya know, leave. But I don’t.

Instead I took my pillow.

She falls into a restless sleep. I hear the trains. I hear sirens. They stop somewhere close to our house. Not going to a hospital. I think.

Someone is dead. Where is he spending eternity, I wonder.

I hear her struggle for each breath. I hear the wind.

I start on my back and she swings around. Beautiful blond lockets smacking me right in the face. I try my side. Knees up. Knees over. Child’s pose. Please God of Mercy, let me fall asleep. I fall asleep.

And  wake up totally drenched. I know, right?

Night sweats in a child’s bed is all kinds of wrong. Plus she has fleece sheets.

They stick to my sweat and refuse to budge. I think I’m going to have a panic attack trying to free my feet and legs.

To review. My child is sick. My metabolism is in a stalling pattern and I’m developing the onset of menopause.

Happy Easter.

I am so selfish. This I get. What a privilege to care for a sick child and all I can think of is I should’ve had children younger so that I wouldn’t be having night sweats while parenting young children, while simultaneously wondering  how quickly I can get in to see the Chiropracter.

I woke up with the nobody-slept-last-night-hangover. A semi-truck has landed on my head.

I hear my alarm from between the walls. My husband turns it off and I wait. I mean, I heard it. I knew it was 6 o’clock. I knew I needed to wake up Coulter. I knew it was time to start my  adult-ing for the day. But I just lay there.

Completely still.

Like maybe my husband wouldn’t be able to find me.

He found me.

Dang it. I always sucked at hide and seek.

Emma Claire, already awake, bounces up. Is it time to get up?

And that’s the difference between being 7 and 43. Well, at least one of the differences.

I hope there are more. Like maybe I’m smarter.

Actually, I’m not smarter.

“Emma Claire, as soon as they open, we’ll schedule an appointment to see the Dr.”

This is good news. Very good news.

“Oh! I better get dressed.” And she does. In a sparkly shirt and colorful jeans.

“Mom, can I share the story? The whole story? Let’s see. What day is it? Ok, so Monday morning I came into your room and said my head hurt….”

My sick child. Vying for an Oscar.

My husband took over. He got Emma Claire settled with a blanket and netflix and took Coulter to school by 7. I have no idea if there were lunches or instruments or books involved, but I know that Coulter is at school and for that I’m grateful.

I told Emma Claire the doctor’s office opened at 8:30. At 8:31 she barges into my room and announces the time. Then she looked at my wrinkled up, sleepy-looking face and said, “Mom, I’m sorry that I stole some of your sleep.”

This child. Of mine.

I’ve taken 2 advil. The semi feels more like a mini-van, albeit a mini-van with back decal missing and the side door crushed in thanks to the little old lady across the street, but at least it’s not a semi and slowly my morning caffiene takes effect. I feel confident that I’ll be able to adult soon.

After my divorce and especially after my marriage to Mike, I had this pollyanna version of the story that we had pretty much served our time. Everybody has hard stuff and we’ve had ours. Past tense. Happy days are here again. How cool is that for us…your hard stuff may still be coming, but we’ve had our  YUK and so now smooth-sailing to Glory. No more sickness. No more sin. No more hard.

Ha-flippin-ha.

The voice of my Grandmother Pearl rings in my head, “Dummy. Dummy. Dummy.”

Over the past two weeks, I’ve wrestled with issues that come from living in a fallen world. I’ve wrestled with the truth that even “the best of men are still men at best.” I’ve wrestled with parenting well and this dang-hard gig of making decisions that will forever impact my children. I’ve wrestled with the old demons that I’m not good enough or smart enough and Christian-enough (and for the record that’s not really a “thing”.)  At the end of the day, do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing and they turn in their ring.

Their key.

Their heart.

Thanks but no thanks.

Tests are back. Influenza A. This confirms my worst fears. I am not good enough. Or smart enough. Or Christian enough. (again, i know. not a real thing.)

I didn’t give the children flu shots this year. This is my fault.

I remember reading an article about the dangers of the flu shot and how we never know if it’s really going to be effective and how it’s a guess as to which strain is coming and—and—and.

And now we have the flu.

Giving thanks in all things, though, I’m grateful for a husband who won’t turn in or turn back or give up on me. I’m thankful that he’s at work so that I can be home. That I can care for and clean up after and lose sleep over. I’m thankful that we have hope beyond the flu, beyond divorce, beyond the best of men (and mommas) that are men (and mommas) at best. That we have a true HOPE that goes beyond blowing out candles on a cake.

We have the cross. We have the Resurrection.

Our bodies are decaying. Our faces are wrinkling. Our metabolism stinks and we wake up in the middle of the night sweating like we just finished a 5K the Hard Way.

In Texas.

In July.

Our backs are aching. Our hearts are breaking.

Oh, and Happy Easter.

He has Risen.

Yes. Indeed He has!

Why I said I left the Y. Why (maybe) I really left the Y.

I went for a run today.

The first run of the season.

Running for me is like swimming. You only do it during certain times of the year.

My favorite runs are on those days when the ground begins to thaw and the warmth of the sun feels like the hand of God has reached down and touched your face.

Today was that kind of day.

My greatest joy running at 43 (opposed to 23), is that it isn’t about  weight-loss.

I run to remind myself that life happens by “taking the next step.”

I run because I need to be alone in my head.

I run because I can, and it’s my way of saying, “thank you.”

I run because it gives me the mistaken, yet awesome feeling, that I’m strong.

Running is the great equalizer. You don’t have to have money or education or talent. Race, faith, gender, politics—none of it matters.

And I like that.

I like that I can literally weep for block after block and no-one notices.

I took my shirt off on 19th street today and no-one noticed that either.

For the record, I did put it back on.

I have 2 secret crying locations. Yes, I know what y’all are thinking. Even those of you who don’t know me have probably seen my cry in more than 2 places. But I said secret.

One is when I run.

And the other is in the shower.

I shower-cry.

It took my forever husband about 48 hours to discover my secret-shower crying. The other morning after I left the breakfast table, he followed me upstairs. I was brushing my teeth. He peeked in.

“Oh.” He said. “I thought maybe you were shower-crying. I wanted to check on you.”

“I was.” I replied. “I’m finished.”

My secret-shower crying started forever ago because it was the only room in the house that locked. Now, it’s the only door in the hour that doesn’t lock.

Or even shut. It’s as if the builders were just a wee bit off when they measured. Or maybe it’s humidity. Or something like that.

For the record there has been no shower or running cry today.

Today I decided to go for a more public cry in front of several clients and trainers.

Ya know, gotta shake things up every once in a while.

But back to my run. Today I had an “Aha” moment (insert trademark Oprah).

I don’t like being told what to do.

Seriously.

I really don’t.

That’s the Aha.

My family is dumbfounded right now that this is coming as a surprise.

When someone tells me what to do, I often feel very strongly inclined to do the very opposite.

My mom. “Don’t marry  (my ex-husband).

Me. “I’m getting married!”

YAyyyy…(excitement with voice trailing off).

This. Just one of maybe 14,000 other examples.

The careers in which I have excelled, nobody told me what to do. I taught Kindermusik for 10+ years. Each hour 9 or 10 children would join me in a circle, along with 9 or 10 parents and they would listen.

To me.

If I told them to waddle like a duck.

Guess what?

They waddled.

And they had fun doing it.

But at no point did they ever tell me what to do. They never told me to use eggs instead of scarves. They never told me to read a different book or choose a different dance.

I was in charge.

So tonight I’m toying with an idea. I told people that I left the Y because I felt overwhelmed by the size. I told people that I left the Y because I wanted a place where my children could hang out and be with me while I worked. I wanted a place that was more private for my clients.

But maybe.

Just maybe.

I left because I don’t like people telling me what to do.

Just prior to my leaving, the Y staff implemented a new policy that required trainers to wear clothing with a YMCA logo.

I joked with staff. I promise, I said.

I’m not leaving  because of the shirt.

But, oh my gosh!

What if it was because of the shirt?

What if I’m so shallow that I would embark on an insane let’s  run-our-own-business idea because having to wear a shirt made me that mad.

I worked for Schmitt music for a few years and they required staff to where a purple collared knit shirt that added like 15 lbs and was scratchy. Would you like to know what I told the manager of Schmitt Music during my first interview?

I told him that for a salary of $7 an hour, I’d be wearing my own clothes.

I later heard that Taco Bell was hiring for $10 an hour but I was pretty sure they’d make me wear the shirt.

And I’d smell like tacos.

I suppose all of the above is true and at the end of the day,  for a multitude of reasons, I wanted— needed—a change.

And it worked.

By some crazy blessing of “OK” from the Lord, it has worked.

It has worked because our business is about relationships. Creating them. Building them. Sharing them.

One of our first clients to join after we opened was a police officer named Joe. The other day as he finished his workout and un-assumingly made his way to the door, I heard about 6 people say, “Bye Joe! See ya, Joe! Love ya, Joe!”

It’s not that I know your name. Everybody knows your name.

We are the CHEERS of Fremont. Just, ya know, without the booze.

Well. There may be booze.

It’s worked because we care about our clients. When Julie walks in, I know. We’ve got to turn the music down and the fans up. When Colleen walks in, we turn off Pandora and play gospel. When Kathy comes in, I know I’m going to learn about mileage increases and the latest in the Republican party (both state and national). She reminds me of my late Aunt Betty, only my late Aunt Betty was a yellow-dog Democrat and Kathy is, ya know, not.

Today an intern looked on as two of my clients covered adoption, abortion, the girl scouts and planned parenthood. For the record, we also talked about surprising ways to get your daily intake of protein.

I pulled the intern aside.

I say to her. For the record. You should never talk politics or religion with your clients. It’s a really bad idea.

But I do. All the time. Everyday. With my little family.

We just finished our taxes for year one.

And by we, I don’t mean we.

But I watched every expense, every purchase, every dollar that came and went during the past year. I don’t watch it because money is super important to me.

Although, admittedly I would rather have it as opposed to not having it.

I watched it because my desire is to be a good steward of the investment that my clients are making in themselves and in Club Fitness.

I watched it because I wanted to be a good steward. I wanted to serve the clients who were believing in us by giving Club Fitness a chance.

My prayer is that the Lord will be glorified in each decision that we make. And while the learning curve has been less of a curve and more like a figure 8 (or, ya know, something harder than a curve), yes, while it has been steep,  I’m so very thankful to the Lord for His provision and protection.

I have know idea what tomorrow will bring. Today, (sidebar and not at all what this blog is about,) brought bitter disappointment. The kind of disappointment that leaves your heart with this weird hollow feeling. The kind of disappointment that makes oreo cookies and milk seem like a good idea even though you can’t remotely figure out why there are oreo cookies in the house.  But I was talking about tomorrow. Wait. We aren’t supposed to worry about tomorrow. So I’ll stick with today.

Today, we have enough $ to pay next month’s rent.

Today, we have enough $ to pay our mortgage, and evidently feed our children oreos.

Today I have a team of incredibly special people who for some crazy reason have chosen me to be their coach.

Today I ran. Starting point was my house. Finish line, the studio.

And the finish line, as I like to say, is only the beginning.

(And for the record I just started saying that yesterday.)

The Only Thing I Ever Needed To Know.

I learned on Wednesdays.

Growing up.

Wednesday afternoons were music days at the Methodist Church. We only went to service once on Sundays and never on Wednesday nights (that’s only for the Baptists), but Wednesdays after school we would eat rice-kripie treats made my someone’s mom and then head into the Sanctuary where my mom lead the music and her best friend, Dottie Lou (that’s Mrs. Buffington to you!) played the piano.

Dottie Lou’s nails were long and beautiful and the biggest, sparkliest, diamonds that a young girl could ever imagine danced alongside her fingers. Her nails made this tap, tap, taping as she played and as a budding pianist myself, I secretly loved the idea that even as a pianist, she refused to cut her nails.

I’m a rule-following rebel. Which is to say that I’m a rebel in my mind, but can never summon up the courage to act on it, which is apparent from my short, un-manicured nails.

Anyway, remember that book about everything we needed to know, we learned in Kindergarten?  This weekend it hit me.

The only thing I ever needed to know, I learned on Wednesdays.

(Right about now, my dad is wondering about those 6 years in college.)

This weekend marked 5 years in Fremont. Mercy! 5 years y’all! That is half a decade. I know, my math skills are incredible.  In a place that I imagined staying for about 5 minutes.

How did 5 minutes turn into 5 years?

Emma Claire has grown-up here. She no longer remembers Sioux Falls.

Coulter has grown-up here in the ways that matter, although close to his heart are the early friends from Sioux Falls. He also remembers the 2 days he spent at De Queen Public Schools in Arkansas. This weekend he randomly asked, “Hey! Remember that time I went to school in Arkansas for like 2 days.”

Yes. Coulter, I remember that.

I remember court documents were flying (his lawyer was lying) Sorry!

That’s rhymed and y’all know I can’t resist a good rhyme.

🙂

Lawyers were hired and my only defense is  Dottie Lou.

And my momma.

Strong ladies, teaching Truth and tappin’ at the piano.

The rebel momma who let her nails grow long.

I was trying to be the Mom who didn’t cower in the face of fear and bullying  and stood up for what I believed was right.

Maybe one day I’ll share the whole story, but today I’ll share this.

It wasn’t planned. I didn’t plan to stay. It was just that one day I woke up and the thought of returning to Nebraska made me feel nauseous.

Ya know, like I was going to throw-up. 🙂

So I stayed. And Coulter went to school. And I dreamed.

And then my lawyer told me I had to come home.

And so I did. But it wasn’t home at that time.

Not even close.

Anne Lamott wrote this weekend that we are broken. We are born broken. And then along the way, we get beat-up and bunged-up and most days we are, quite simply, plain messed-up but God’s grace, she says, is the glue. It’s the tape.

My Aunt Ida loved duct tape. Gone for more than 15 years now, she would be fascinated by the idea that we can buy colored duct-tape with crazy designs and that’s what I pictured as I read Anne’s words. Just me. All wrapped up in duct-tape.

Hot pink. With polka dots.

Duh!

It’s our spirits that really take a beatin’ though, and those aren’t easily taped.

At our fitness studio, we have a new piece of equipment called the Prowler.

I don’t know what it is, but it’s very exciting.

And big.

And I have a love-hate relationship with it. I love it because one of our clients purchased it for the studio. I love that our fitness family builds into our place. If we have a need, they help us fill it. Today I walked in and found 2 new clocks on the wall. I’m thinking it was our friend Brenda. Ya know, she just brought in some clocks.

I hate it because men are like small children (somedays I feel as though I’m running a daycare) and they leave it out with ginormous amounts of weight on it and they leave it, I don’t know, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM! and it drives me CRAZY!

I tried moving it last week and got bruise the size of Texas on my thigh. I tried to take a picture of it to send to whom I suspect is (one of) the culprits, but I couldn’t get a really good angle and you couldn’t see it unless I was pretty much naked and the culprit in question is my pastor 😉 whom I love, and for some reason, my rebel-spirit stopped short of sending a naked selfie to my pastor.

But I have a bruise. Just so ya know.

And that’s how my spirit has felt over much of the past 5 years. Like it was bruised and tender and sore and hard to share because there’s no easy angle to take a picture of the soul.

And to be naked—-your sole laid bare—is hardest of all.

But here I am, he WE are. 5 years later. Bruised, beaten-up, broken.

And beautiful.

Elisabeth Elliot says that God’s refusals are always merciful. “Severe mercies” at times but mercies all the same. She goes on, “God never withholds from His child that which His love and wisdom call good….he never denies us our hearts desires except to give us something better.”

I have my something better.

And so what is that I learned? What is it, that Wednesday after Wednesday, my Mother would pour into us?

Truth.

“Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak, but He is strong.”

Remember that one? I think even as I sang it, I didn’t consider myself a little one. And I sure as heck didn’t consider myself weak.

Probably up until these past 5 years, I envisioned a poor little black child, belly swollen from hunger and carrying water on his head.

That’s what weak meant to me.

Today. Finally. I know. That little black child, hungering for truth and grace and returning again and again to the Living Water is me.

I am weak.

But He is strong.

And I learned it on a Wednesday. 🙂

Last week, on a ski-lift, overlooking a sparkly, twinkly winter-landscape that was far more beautiful than even Dottie Lou’s jewels, Coulter turns to me and said.

“Thank you for this, Mom.”

And my heart did a belly-flop. He knew.

This was special.

This was a gift.

I turned to the sky and breathed out into the vast Universe.

“Thank you for this, Lord.”

Because I knew. And I know.

That I’m ever so weak and He’s ever so strong.

And the severe mercies of the past 5 years have brought me here.

And they have been a gift.

Top 5 Ways To Co-Parent Children of Divorce

Coulter says. “This yogurt is good.”

Emma Claire says. “That’s an opinion. Not a fact”.

Coulter comes back. “It is a fact that I like the yogurt.”

Emma Claire comes back. “The yogurt is good is an opinion. Mom bought the yogurt at HyVee is a fact.”

Good grief.

So I’m tossing around in my head whether what I’m going to share today is opinion or fact.

It’s my first ever Top 5 List. I know Top 10 lists are more popular, but it’s a list about things that my ex-husband and I do well and to be honest, 5 will be a stretch.

At least for me.

So here it goes.

The Top 5 Ways that my Ex-husband and I Co-Parent correctly. (And if you are a divorced parent, things you should be doing as well.)

And that, in my humble opinion, is a fact. 🙂

#1. We follow the rules.

We fought our case. We fought hard. Tears. Attorneys. Mediators. Judges. 2 years. We fought our case. We fought for our children. We both lost. Because right, everyone pretty much loses when you tear apart a family?

But.

Once the plan was laid down. Once the papers were signed. Once we sent our final checks to the attorneys, we have followed the rules. It makes life easier. It makes life better. It makes a life that is totally unfair a little bit more-fair.

#2. We answer the question, “What is best for my children.”

It’s not what is best for Mother.

The end.

#3. By the grace of God, we compromise respectfully.

We do this because:

#1, we follow the rules and because #2, the answer to every question is “What is best for my children?”

Example. I have a super cool birthday present for Emma Claire this year, but it would involve her Dad’s Friday night. I can’t just call him and change the plan. I can’t just break the rules. Think I’m judge and jury. BUT, I can humble myself and ask.

He didn’t hesitate. What’s best for Emma Claire?

He answered yes.

And I’ve told Emma Claire that I have the best birthday present in the history of the world except for Jesus and she squeals! “Is it a phone?”

No. Emma Claire, it’s not a phone.

That’s a fact.

#4. We don’t treat our children as pawns.

We don’t use them to hurt each other. They aren’t little chess pieces to be moved around so that we can look our ex-spouse in the eyes one day and cry “Checkmate!” They are children. We created them together. We are raising them.

Together.

And a part.

This is not a game to be won or loss.

This is life. And the circumstance surrounding our lives are those in which we created.

Not our children.

#5. We don’t treat our children like small adults.

We don’t have adult conversations with our children. They already know more than they should. They already hurt more than they should. We don’t add to that. My children have never once heard me say anything bad about their dad.